The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(24)
Author: Emma Holly

“Hardly ever,” Charlie said as she searched for a safe answer. “Becca barely owns a dress.”

“I do too,” she said, thinking twice in one day was too often to be accused of this.

“It’s a beige dress,” Pete informed Jesse. “Buttons up to her neck like a nun’s habit. I think she bought it back in ’06.”

“I did not. It’s only, like, three years old. And it’s a perfectly nice shirtwaist. Anyway, why do I have to wear a dress on a date?”

“You don’t have to wear anything,” Jesse assured her earnestly, which sent her brothers into fresh fits of snickering.

The boys proved they all were too young to date by throwing balled-up napkins at each other. Maybe sensing he wasn’t coming off as mature, Jesse volunteered to help clean up. Rebecca’s kitchen was old and didn’t have a dishwasher. Not quite by the by, Jesse mentioned he could get her a deal on a kitchen reno . . . once her income suite was finished.

Rebecca avoided grinning by a hair. Jesse might be young, but he certainly was working out the paths to a woman’s heart.

Pete seemed to think his friend had made too much progress. As the others went down the front walk later, he hung back in the entry. “Watch out for him,” he said, cocking his head toward Jesse’s departing back. “He’s a nice guy, but he’s got a string of older women he dangles after him.”

“Ah, the lure of a hunky young handyman,” she mused.

“I’m serious,” Pete said. “Not that you shouldn’t date. You should. Maybe someone fun your own age. It isn’t right for you to give up having a life for me and Charlie.”

Rebecca absolutely wasn’t going to mention the fun she had that morning. She hugged Pete instead, loving the easy way his arms came around her. Neither of her brothers had outgrown showing affection.

“I shall ruminate on your advice,” she promised him humorously.

Pete pushed her back to arm’s length, his almost-adult face concerned. “You don’t have to be alone so much, Sis. The time when the three of us had to hide things is over.”

Before she could speak, he trotted down the front steps after the other two, leaving her with her eyes stinging. Sometimes Rebecca wished the twins weren’t so awesome. If they hadn’t been, maybe she wouldn’t dread the day when they would be grown up.

~

Zane and Trey had come a long way from their student digs in Cambridge. Their place in Lexington was a 1930’s era mansion set on sixteen acres of walled-in greenery. Their needs were seen to by a small and loyal staff, perhaps the only people in the world who knew Zane and Trey rarely used the second of their two bedrooms. The house itself had twenty, plus a library, an indoor pool, an outdoor lagoon, and a huge garage with room for fifteen cars.

They sometimes threw weekend parties, which could get racy. Then the rule was what happened at Buck House—as the estate was known locally—stayed at Buck House. Thus far, they hadn’t had problems. The friends who came to play also valued privacy.

Most of the time, they enjoyed the place on their own. It was too big for two people, but it was peaceful. Zane loved coming home to it, whether from a day in Boston or a longer business trip. Few residences could have reminded him less of the 1960’s rambler he’d grown up in. He could be a different person here entirely—not abused, not boiling so helplessly with anger he feared he’d turn patricide. Here he was free and calm. Here he and Trey ruled what they surveyed.

Owens, their relatively new driver, dropped Zane off at the tall columned portico. Owens would park the limo, pass Zane’s luggage to Mrs. Penworth for laundering, after which he’d retire to his apartment over the big garage. The man was settling in. As a nephew to Mrs. Penworth, their house manager, he’d known what to expect of the job.

With no suitcases to haul in, Zane let himself in the wide front entrance. The hour was past ten. The house was quiet, nothing brighter than wall sconces burning in the main hall. To Zane’s left, the paneled door to the library was ajar.

“Trey?” he called, his heart beating faster at the thought of greeting his closest friend. Per usual, his eagerness to see Trey made him slightly uneasy. Pushing that aside, he swung the library door open. A single black-shaded sconce near the door illuminated the long book-lined space. Naturally, the A/C was blasting. Trey liked the house chilly.

“You in here, Trey?” he asked.

“Here,” he said from the other end of the room. He’d been hidden within a wing chair in the half-circle of French windows that overlooked the back lawn. Tonight, a bright half moon cast squares of light through the panes. Trey seemed to have been daydreaming. A magazine lay open on the carpet at his feet. On the table beside him a bottle of Bordeaux—half empty—and a glass—half full—showed how he’d spent the time.

Zane wondered if he were drunk, not a common state for him. Trey turned his head to watch him approach without rising. “How was Hawaii?”

“Unproductive. The resort wasn’t up to TBBC standards.”

“Mm,” Trey said vaguely. He picked up his wine and sipped. “Meet any interesting women while you were there?”

Trey never asked him that. Zane couldn’t imagine why he was asking now. “No. Wasting my time put me in a bad mood. I didn’t feel like chasing skirts.”

“Sorry,” Trey said absently.

“You okay?” Zane dropped his hand onto Trey’s shoulder. “You don’t usually sit in the dark drinking wine.”

“The moon was nice.” Trey let out a laugh Zane couldn’t interpret.

Because he hadn’t gotten up yet, Zane bent down to kiss him. Trey touched his face and returned the slow lip lock. The kiss was nice. Trey didn’t kiss any other way. Despite this, when Zane drew back, his uneasiness had returned. Something was off with his friend and, because of that, something was off with Zane.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” He stiffened as a possibility occurred to him. “You didn’t get another letter from your aunt, did you?”

Trey’s father had killed himself six months earlier. According to the police, he’d left no note and no warning signs besides a general depression. Mr. Hayworth had simply parked in his closed garage and let the engine run. This, as it happened, was the same method his wife had used to commit suicide. Trey hadn’t gone to the funeral. His father hadn’t contacted Trey after he went to college, nor had his son called him. His aunt, on the other hand, had been writing to her nephew ever since her brother’s death. Her persistence was one of few things Zane ever saw upset Trey.